Fog
by Nerva al'Thor
Summary: -Oneshot; Complete- Set about around before Chapter 170. Allen ponders the real meaning of pain and anger. But no matter what he does, his logic fails beside Kanda's. Implied pair.


**Fog**

* * *

This is the first he's consented to take the communal bath with us, and I guess I should be surprised. He was never the type to stick to communal baths despite being Japanese – what I knew about him said he had grown up entirely in France, being taken here when he was just 8 years old. He never knew his parents, and did not give care to know who they were. For all he knew they could be dead, and he was never the type to go after shadows of the past. Or leaves of the past. I fail horribly at these kinds of descriptions.

We have some of the scientists with us, and Johnny has a floater with him. Lavi's teasing the poor guy. Sometimes I think Lavi needs to ease up on his teasing, especially on poor Johnny. Ever since Suman's death he's been a chaotic basket of emotions. You never knew when he'd break.

Marie and Chaoji step into the steaming pool first, followed by him. He sweeps us all a look of no-nonsense, and I felt myself bristling when his gaze landed on me, a fraction of fifteen seconds, before turning elsewhere.

I knew he hated me now more than ever.

Ever since that announcement from Komui and Leverrier, he had only spared me one long glance. I had been alone, training, and to my enormous surprise he entered the room and walked briskly toward me.

Pain on my face and searing through my skull as his punch resonated with the anger he felt.

We exchanged no words. I was a heap on the floor, looking up at him.

That was probably the longest time he had ever looked upon me.

I could feel his hate. His derision. His disgust.

Surprising, really, to see him consenting to share this communal pool with us – with me. I remember our very first meeting, when he'd refused to take my hand and shake it.

_Like I'd shake hands with a cursed person_, he said.

* * *

I try hard not to look at the mirrored wall that spans one whole side of the pool. Despite the steam blurring the glass, I did not want to look. I had long since stopped looking into mirrors. I don't look out windows, unless it was extremely called-for.

I didn't like what I was going to see.

Every day, _his_ image grows clearer. I have stopped looking because of this. The last glimpse I had betrayed some features that _he_ didn't possess at first. I knew for a fact that _he_ would have long hair. Long, white hair up to _his_ waist, which he keeps tied from _his_ face with a piece of red ribbon. _His_ skin is flawless gray, and _he_ is wearing fashionable suits, _his_ shirts buttoned up all the way to _his_ collar. _His_ eyes are golden. The crosses on _his_ forehead vivid.

I asked them to remove the mirror from my room two weeks ago.

* * *

I watch him take a bath as I scrub my arms clean with a warm, wet towel. He's strayed quite far from us, at the edge of the pool, closer to the mirrored wall than what I would have liked. Looking at him meant looking at the wall. But I had to live with that. He probably did it on purpose, to taunt me.

He has his back facing us. His long, blue-black hair cascades beautifully around him, damp from the steam and water. I watch him as he stands waist-deep in the pool, a white towel in his hand as he wipes his chest. I tilt my head. Discreetly (I hope) I glance at the other Exorcists there with us.

Marie has always been the biggest among us. His muscles and girth of figure could rival Winter Sokalo's at best. He had scars, a myriad of them, ranging from gaping gouges that have filled in with flesh to dark bumps on his equally dark skin, almost black in comparison. Lavi with his tanned complexion wasn't safe from the scarring. He had a nasty gouge on his back, very big, running from his left shoulder and cutting diagonally through his back, to a stop at the back of his right waist, just a few centimeters where a kidney was. Chaoji still had traces of bruises from his prep training. Johnny still had that hole where Lulubelle had stabbed him with her tail.

The steam rises steadily around us, white and ethereal. Like Hevlaska's arms.

I looked at my hands. One human, one monster. My human arm wasn't safe from any scarring. I had a good many cuts, darkened by age and time, and sometimes when you looked close enough you could still see the tiny holes where the stitches had passed through. My middle and chest are swathed with them. Though I have yet to earn real marks of war like Lavi's or Marie's.

_Yet I have those, possibly bigger, deep inside._

I turn my head and dump the white towel on my hair. I feel the hot water cascade down my cheeks. Soothing.

I look at him again.

His long hair is like a shield, covering his front, hiding his tattoo and the fire-like tendrils that span from it. He stands apart, almost curling over himself. His arms wrapped around him like that, as if he were cold. Was he aware of what he looked like? Was he aware that he was holding himself, as if trying to comfort himself from some unknown sorrow? I look at the foggy mirror. Even his hair hides his eyes. His lips are compressed into a thin line. A small twitch, a small movement.

He is biting his lower lip. He holds himself closer.

He tenses, and his muscles tense, the drops of water clinging to his perfect, unmarred skin glistening under the lights. I watch, and a droplet cascades from the back of his neck, down, down, tracing the imperceptible curve of his spine, down, down, to join the pool below. Other droplets follow the same path. They trace his body. They trace a journey. Some drip from the ends of his perfect hair.

_An Exorcist is not an Exorcist until he is scarred by his battles._

I cannot now remember who said that. It was probably Master.

But here he is, standing, a whole world distant from me, holding himself. I could almost imagine the sobs he won't let out, the tears he wouldn't shed. He is stubborn. He doesn't acknowledge what pain he has. When he punched me, I saw it in his eyes.

_What do YOU know about pain, moyashi?_

I still watch him. He bends his legs underwater, and he lowers himself. Slowly, slowly, taking an eternity. His hair spreads around him like ink. He lowers himself, the white curls of steam swirling about him. One hand on his own shoulder, squeezing.

He's trying to reassure himself from something.

I watch as he sinks lower and lower. Only his eyes and the top of his head visible now. I glance at him. I wasn't surprised to meet his gaze. He had always been sensitive when other people were watching him. He knew I was watching him. Knew I was studying the way he held himself.

_What do I know about pain when compared to him? His eyes tell me my pain is imaginary compared to his. Trivial. Inconsequential. Worthless._

He looked at me, and I looked at him for a long time on the mirror. For the briefest of seconds, his gray eyes changed into gold.

My heart froze.

And then he was gone, sinking completely into the depths of the pool, disappearing from my sight.


End file.
